Rose

by Jill Marie Landis

  Kase remembered the police, or Metal Badges, as they were called, who were hired by the agents to keep the peace among the People. As a boy he had admired the shining buttons and insignia on their dark uniforms. Now he had a badge himself tucked into his saddlebag. He had been lucky not to have run into the Indian police thus far.

  The day after he met Robert Shield, Kase rode into the Pine Ridge Agency dressed in a pair of the man’s faded woolen trousers and a buckskin shirt. He wondered—as he had each and every day since he left Busted Heel—how Rose fared and what she might be doing. He had left Zach instructions to watch over her and had taken the old man’s ribbing when he did. He thought of Rose and Zach, of Floss and the girls. All of them were misfits of one kind or another who had been brought together by the hand of fate.

  He found himself anxious to return to Busted Heel, and to Rose, but knew he could not go back until he had faced and dealt with his past.

  Chapter

  Ten

  As the sun slipped behind the mountains earlier each evening, the nights grew increasingly cooler and the days shorter. Rosa’s Ristorante continued to serve cowhands, townsfolk, and visitors to Busted Heel alike. As the weeks passed with no word at all from Kase Storm, Rosa spent every waking hour hard at work cooking, painting, organizing, shopping, smiling. But more often than not, her smiles were forced.

  There were days when she grew impatient with herself. Didn’t she have everything she had hoped for? Her ristorante was a success; she had made enough money not only to whitewash the inside of the place but to pay for wineglasses and a special shipment of red wine from New York. It gave her great satisfaction to look around and admire all she had accomplished. Through tragedy she had become independent, far more so than she would have ever been in Corio. Surely her hard-won success would prove to Kase Storm that she did belong in Busted Heel.

  There were days during his absence when she grew impatient with him. Where was he? If he was coming back, when would that be? She vacillated between hate and love. Sometimes she itched to slap him for the worry he had caused; at other times, all she wanted was to feel his arms about her. More often than not, she wondered if there was anything between them except a night of stolen kisses and fondling. She did not really know him, for he had never really opened his heart to her. Why should she hope there ever might be anything more? He was a brooding, silent man who became angry with her as easily as he drew a breath. Would he ever change?

  It was mid-September and Rosa was in her usual state of confusion over Kase Storm when Quentin Rawlins strode into the café. He had the same self-assured aura that Kase exuded, that of a large man in a small room. He was tall, strong-shouldered, confident. Quentin bestowed a wide, warm smile upon her as he worked his way past the crowded tables and stopped just inside the kitchen door.

  “Rose”—he took in her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the stove, her neat, upswept hairstyle, her spotless apron— “how are you?”

  “Bene. Fine.” Before she turned to him, she bent to lift a loaf of bread from the oven. “You come to eat, Signor Quentin? There is room at the table near the window.” Rosa saw no need to seat customers alone when there was room at an occupied table. Everyone seemed to enjoy the family-style atmosphere as farmers ate with ranch hands and storekeepers with travelers.

  He shook his head, “Not yet. I want to talk to you alone first. Am I in the way?” He reached for an olive in a dish on the worktable and popped it in his mouth.

  “No,” she shook her head as she kept on working.

  She felt his eyes on her but was able to accomplish her tasks with an ease she would never have known if it had been Kase Storm watching her bustle about the kitchen. Quentin came to town often, usually on the way to or from Cheyenne, and Rosa enjoyed his visits. While most cattlemen preferred to live in Cheyenne and visit their ranches occasionally, Quentin wanted to live in the sprawling ranch house at the base of the mountains. Rosa could well understand his choice of residence, for the land around Mountain Shadows reminded her of Corio.

  Between his sojourns he often stopped in to eat, and when she had time to listen, Quentin regaled her with descriptions of Cheyenne. The Cheyenne Club, his home away from home, was an imposing two-story building complete with a restaurant and bar, billiard room, library, and six rooms for cattlemen like himself who found a need to stay in town for the night. He told Rosa with a laugh that the members had voted long ago not to provide a separate dining room for women. The place was a haven for men only.

  From Quentin she learned that Cheyenne had an opera house, three grand hotels, variety theaters, and, he said, with a smile, all the comforts of Busted Heel, except on a far grander scale.

  “You had a good trip?” she asked.

  “Yep, but I have to go back at the end of the week to sign some deeds.”

  She sliced some bread and placed the heavenly fragrant pieces on a side dish with a slab of butter. This she handed to Quentin before she lifted two dinner plates heaped with egg noodles smothered in cream sauce. “Come. You carry that for me,” she said over her shoulder with a smile. She led him into the dining room, and since her customers seemed content for the moment, she sat down across from him.

  “It’s amazing what you’ve done with this place, Rosa.”

  As he looked the place over, she felt herself glow with pride. “Next I will have lights on the walls,” she told him confidently.

  “Rosa, I wouldn’t doubt that you can do anything, but there’s no electricity in Busted Heel and I don’t foresee any coming for a few years. How do you propose to accomplish that?”

  She shook her head. “I will have the kind like Flossie. They hold the candles.”

  He looked aghast. “You’ve been to Flossie’s?”

  “Yes,” she said truthfully. “She is my friend. Sometimes in the early morning I still clean the downstairs of her house. And she gives me tea. But,” she added, “she does not often get up before afternoon.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” he said, half to himself. “What else do you have in store for the illustrious diners of Busted Heel?”

  Rosa laughed, and realized that for the first time in days, she was enjoying herself.

  “You know, Rosa, I’ll loan you anything you need if you want to expand your business. I know a good thing when I see it.”

  “Grazie, signer, but my ristorante is big enough for Busted Heel and for me. Any more would be too much too soon.”

  “Are you happy here, Rosa? Do you see yourself working forever?”

  She frowned, wondering why he might think her unhappy.

  “I have not thought—”

  “I just wondered, a fine-looking woman like yourself. I know you needed time to mourn your husband. My own wife passed away fifteen years ago. Don’t you ever think of sharing your life with a man? Of letting someone take care of you for a change?”

  How could she tell him she would not allow herself to dwell on such thoughts? They only led her to think of Kase Storm.

  “Don’t tell me no one’s proposed to you yet?”

  Rosa laughed. “Many of your workers.”

  “And you turned them down?”

  “Sì.”

  “Then I guess there’s no use in me trying to persuade you to marry me, is there?”

  She took a deep breath and wished he had not complicated their relationship with his proposal. She valued him as a friend, nothing more. “No, Signor Quentin. I have no wish to marry.”

  “Yet,” he added.

  “Not yet.”

  “You won’t crush an old man by telling him he shouldn’t keep trying, will you?”

  She stared down at her hands as she twisted her apron. “I am happy that we are friends, Signor Quentin, but”—she forced herself to meet his gaze—“I do not want you to think that maybe some day we will marry. You are my friend, signore, but nothing more. I hope we will remain friends.” She released a pent-up breath and waited nervously for him to reply. He looked down at he
r for a moment. Then, to her relief, Quentin Rawlins smiled.

  “I’m glad you told me, Rosa. I admire honesty in a person more than any other trait.” His blue eyes took on their mischievous twinkle. “Now humor an old man, would you? Is there someone else?”

  She felt the heat of embarrassment suffuse her face, but did not look away from him. “I think maybe the marshal.”

  For the first time ever, she saw him frown. “Kase?”

  She nodded.

  “I see.”

  “I thought he is your friend, signore.”

  Quentin lowered his fork and leaned toward her with his elbows resting on the table. “He is; don’t get me wrong. He’s a well-educated man from a fine family—”

  “Sì?”

  “Rosa, you know he is part Sioux.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you know what that means?”

  “No.”

  He sighed before he added, “He is half Indian.”

  She drew back, leaning against the back of the chair. “And this makes a difference for you?”

  Quentin’s expression was one of concern. He shook his head and said, “No, not really,” but his tone belied the response. “Well, not in an everyday sense. But, Rosa, I don’t think you realize what other people would think of you taking up with a man of Indian blood.”

  She watched him closely, trying to weigh his words against his expression. He said that Kase’s bloodlines made no difference to him, and yet his concern told her otherwise.

  “I am Italian,” she said.

  “I know that, but—”

  “I, too, am different.”

  He looked as if he were carrying a heavy weight as he said, “But you’re still white.”

  She knew her displeasure was mirrored in her eyes. She shrugged. “White, brown. Is no difference to me.”

  “To you, perhaps not, but you have no idea what people will think, or how you would be treated if you married a half-breed.”

  “The people here are my friends.”

  “I’m not talking about Busted Heel, Rosa. I’m talking about the rest of the world.”

  As the tension between them increased, her stomach tied itself in knots. Hoping to relieve the strain she smiled. “You think the rest of the world will be mad with Rosa?”

  “This is not a laughing matter. Kase is a half-breed. That’s something you have to face if you care about your future or your children’s future, if you should have any. I consider him a friend, just as his father is my friend, but as your friend I’m trying to spare you a lot of heartache. Of course, if you’ve made up your mind that you have to have him, I’ll back you.” He reached out and took her hand. “But I’d advise you to think long and hard about this.”

  His warning was all she needed to make her dig in her heels. With a stubborn tilt of her chin she told him frankly, “I listen to my heart, signore.”

  “But hearts are blind.”

  Rosa studied him until he began to eat again and then excused herself. She returned to the table to offer him more wine, which he declined. After the bill was all settled, she walked him to the door.

  A sudden thought struck her. What if Quentin Rawlins told Kase what she had just admitted? First Flossie, now Quentin. She might just as well put a sign in the window announcing her attraction to Kase to the entire town.

  “Signore, I must ask you as a friend not to speak about this, most especially, do not tell the marshal. Maybe I should not have spoken.”

  “I won’t say anything to Kase. Besides, if the man has half a brain in his head he’s already in love with you. But I want you to think about what I’ve said and just remember, if you ever need a loan to help you expand the business, Rosa, you come to me and you’ve got it. I know a good investment when I see one.”

  “I will, signore,” she promised.

  She stood in the open doorway for a moment and watched him walk away. His words gave her much to consider.

  It was near the end of September, the Moon of the Black Calf, when Kase reached Wakpamni, the distribution center at Pine Ridge. White-faced buttes covered with yellow pine were scattered across the open prairie surrounding the area. He dismounted and walked amid the groupings of tipis that dotted the open plain. No tree or ridge protected the Wakpamni or the dwellings there from the onslaught of the prairie winds. The ground was windswept and barren, but the inhabitants of the village seemed not to notice as they moved about.

  Flatbed wagons were pulled up alongside many of the dwellings, and beside them sat men and women huddled in striped woolen blankets. They watched him as he passed. He stopped a smiling young woman with a wide-eyed child beside her to ask where he could find Running Elk, the shaman.

  A group of older women walked past just as the girl was about to answer. He merely glanced at the women before he turned his attention back to the comely young mother. Before she could speak, a woman disengaged herself from the group and hesitantly approached Kase. She could have been no more than forty, but her face showed years of hardship. She stared at him as if she were entranced. But as she drew nearer, her eyes widened in fear and horror. Kase looked around for help when she cast aside her robe and fell on her knees before him. Screaming and crying, she began to tear at her hair.

  Her startled companions drew away and the young woman’s child began howling, adding to the general hysteria. Kase stood immobilized by the scene as others came running. Men and women crowded close as children tried to break into the circle that quickly formed about Kase and the wailing woman. A touch upon his sleeve caused Kase to start and reach for the gun that usually rode his hip. His hand came away empty. Shaken by the episode, he turned to see who had touched him and found himself gazing down into the clear dark eyes of a wizened old man. He knew without being told that the man could be none other than Running Elk.

  The old man walked past Kase and knelt beside the woman. He spoke to her softly, whispering words that only she could hear. As the man tried to calm the woman, Kase stared at the buffalo robe the shaman wore. It was painted with colorful yellow spots and stars. Weasel skins and squirrel tails along with pendants of feathers and assorted bells hung from the robe. A rawhide medicine bag painted with a symbol of a running elk and decorated with feathers and beads hung from the waistband of his buckskin pants.

  Running Elk drew a wand made of chicken and magpie feathers. He shook the wand and waved it back and forth over the sobbing woman and began to chant. As he did, she slowly regained control. Running Elk stood and motioned some of the other women near. At a sharp word from the shaman, they hesitantly approached and knelt beside her. As they whispered softly among themselves, Running Elk stood and returned to Kase’s side.

  When Kase began to speak, Running Elk shook his head, warning him to be silent. He took hold of Kase and led him away from the disturbing scene. Kase followed without question, grateful to leave the others staring after him. When they reached a large dwelling covered with faded symbols, the old man disappeared inside.

  Kase removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. He wiped his palms on his thighs and then scratched on the tipi near the entrance. When the shaman bade him enter, Kase drew aside the door flap and stooped to step into the dim interior of the tipi. Once inside, he paused, trying to recall all Caleb had taught him about Sioux etiquette. He stepped to the right, the way a man should do when entering a tipi, and then sat down before the old shaman. The place smelted of smoke I and sweat, of hides and close, warm air.

  The man’s skin was as creased as an eroded hillside. When he hunched over a small fire, Kase saw that his face was not only lined but still faintly streaked with grime. The old man clutched a blanket about his shoulders. His hair was as white as snow, parted into two braids that hung past his shoulders. He was thin to the point of emaciation, but his eyes shone like the coals burning in the fire ring in the center of the tipi.

  “Sit down, my son,” he said, his strong voice at odds with his frail appearance.

  K
ase sat, laid his hat beside him, and waited for the old one to speak. He did not have to wait long.

  “So, you have come.”

  “You know me?” Kase swallowed. For the first time in his life he felt afraid enough to run.

  “I know you.” The old one stared and waited for Kase to speak again.

  “How? And what was wrong with that woman? Did she knowjne?”

  “She thought you were a ghost—the ghost of her husband. She saw his face in yours.”

  Kase frowned. Could it be? “Who was her husband?”

  The old man’s gaze was hooded. “Why have you come?”

  “I am Kase Storm. I want to know of a man of the Oglala, a man who once traveled into the Iowa land.” A man who raped my mother.

  “Many men have traveled past the edges of the reservation, but none for many years.”

  “This would have been over twenty-one years ago.”

  The shaman closed his eyes and nodded. He was silent for so long Kase was certain he had fallen asleep. Then, without opening his eyes, Running Elk said, “Why do you seek the name of such a man?”

  Angry, certain the old man was toying with him, Kase answered sullenly, “I think you know why. And I think you know the man I speak of.”

  “You are angry because you are afraid. What is it you fear?”

  Startled, Kase dropped his gaze and stared into the fire. He did feel fear. Heart-stopping fear that had pervaded his being since the woman outside had fallen at his feet. He sensed that before he left Pine Ridge he would know all he had come to learn.